


On the Grass Under the Moon

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Actor RPF, Jonas Brothers, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of hustling pool or playing cards, they sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Grass Under the Moon

**ON THE GRASS UNDER THE MOON**  
SUPERNATURAL/JONAS BROTHERS RPS  
Kevin/Joe/Nick, Dean/Joe, Joe/Zac Efron, Sam/Dean, Zac/Selena Gomez  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; underage

  


  
  
Fanart made by the talented: [](http://sheepy-hollow.livejournal.com/profile)[**sheepy_hollow**](http://sheepy-hollow.livejournal.com/)  


Instead of hustling pool or playing cards, they sing. It doesn’t bring them much, but what it does bring they save up in the lining of Nick’s old guitar case, the one that doesn’t hold a guitar, but a few shotguns filled with rock salt, instead, the metal ends sawed off to make them fit. They sing in bars when the owners are able to look past Nick’s sweet, boy-ish face, and they sing on the streets when they’re in the big cities, sing for quarters and the crumpled dollar bills that businessmen throw down when Joe smiles their way, winking nice and obscene.

Kevin’s always said that hunting doesn’t make enough to live on, what with the small palm-pressed twenties from gracious families, and if they didn’t have to do it, if they had never gotten roped into the life, well, they could have done this instead.

Kevin smiles and tells them that they could have made records, maybe, and gotten some airplay on the radio, if only Nick would sing the songs he writes on the back of Big Mac wrappers and the dirty plastic sheen of bathroom stalls, instead of the covers they always do.

Kevin says, “We could have had fans, maybe.” His shy smile lopsided when Joe turns to look at the earnestness of his face.

Kevin never says, “We could have been famous.” But it’s what he means, anyway.

Joe doesn’t mind the hunting part so much, doesn’t mind the life, but only because he’s always kind of been like this, living on the edge looking for something different, something more, something that might take away the knot of anger from his stomach. The knot that sharpens on the nights he thinks about his parents, the knot that sharpens and grows until Joe feels the smooth slide of Nick’s hand down his arm, his fingers curling in between Joe’s. Kevin and Nick have forgiven the thing that took their parents, that took Frankie, forgiven and let go, but Joe has never forgotten.

Joe has never given up the hate.

They sing and, sometimes, it’s enough to keep Nick going for weeks, his guitar never far away from his fingers, and sometimes it’s all he needs, his voice smooth and slipping from his mouth like it never even needed to be pulled. Nick likes moving from one place to another, but only because there’s always new people to hear his voice, only because there’s always new people to stop and really listen. Joe teases him about it, sometimes, running a rough hand through Nick’s hair, and Nick will push him off, but his hands are always gentle and his smile is always real.

And Nick will say, “Shut up,” but his voice won’t hold any malice. And Joe will pull him into a hug and they’ll stand like that until Kevin slips into their rented room, usually bone-weary and bleeding and smiling big and raw, shotgun heavy in his hands.

Joe knows that Nick knows that there’s something there that shouldn’t be.

And Joe knows that Nick has always wanted something better, something more normal than this, and Joe knows that, most of all, he has always failed to give it to him.

***

There’s a ghost in a little town somewhere in Colorado that keeps leaving blood-red handprints on walls. Kevin hears this story from Zac, who hears it from Selena, who might have heard it in a bar or from Demi or something, Zac’s not too sure, not when she whispers this to him while she’s leaving wet kisses in a trail down his stomach. While her fingernails scratch more than tickle on the way down.

Zac tells this to Kevin and Kevin tells this to Joe, his eyes bright in that excited way he gets when they first hear of a case. Colorado’s a big place, but Kevin knows exactly the right town, exactly the right house, and his hands shake with adrenaline when he says the words. They’re two thousand miles away, but Joe can’t say no when Kevin gets like this and Kevin knows it.

Zac meets them in a small diner off of Main Street to lay out the details. The sun is just coming up and Joe’s wearing sunglasses and scraping the metal of his fork through the stiff pile of eggs on his plate, the screeching sound sharp in his ears. Nick is still asleep in the motel room and Kevin keeps giving Joe looks like he’s the goddamn antichrist.

Zac’s foot keeps finding itself sliding up Joe’s leg. Joe doesn’t even bother asking, it just wouldn’t be worth it.

Kevin says, “So what’s the activity?”

Zac looks away from Joe’s mirrored sunglasses and shrugs. “Same old stuff, I guess,” he says. “Moving furniture, blood on the walls, you know.” Joe does know, just like Kevin, just like Zac.

“So why hasn’t this thing been burned yet?” Joe says, raising one eyebrow. “If it’s so normal, I mean.”

Zac shrugs again. “I’ve heard some things about this house.”

Kevin says, “Like what?” Joe feels him stiffening in his seat, feels his back grow straighter.

Zac almost looks uncomfortable, his fingers drawing charms and symbols in the syrup on his plate. “You know, urban legends and things. They say a hunter tried to burn the ghost about thirty years ago and never made it out. Like, they never saw him again.” His mouth is a straight line. “Nobody really tried to do anything about it since then.”

Kevin slides his hand on top of the red leather booth, his arm snaking around Joe’s shoulders, almost touching. “And why the sudden interest in it now?”

“New owners,” Zac says, rolling his eyes. “Apparently they got so spooked they left in the middle of the night or something, called a priest the next day, but nothing happened.” Zac’s foot slides up Joe’s calf, slides up Joe’s inner thigh, and Joe can feel the warmth of skin and muscle and maybe it’s not exactly his fault if his legs spread a little farther apart.

“So, what are we supposed to do differently?” Kevin says, his fingers brushing the back of Joe’s neck. It might just be a habit.

Joe swallows and says, “Did Selena give us anything to work with?”

Zac shakes his head, and has the gall to look unconcerned. “No. She told me to tell you to use whatever you want. Whatever you think might help.” His toes are tracing the bulge in Joe’s pants, tracing light enough to feel like maybe Joe’s just imagining it. “It might not matter, anyway,” he says. “I heard two other guys are going up there to check it out.”

“What other guys? Hunters?” Joe’s voice is barely above a whisper and not even close to being even, the pressure of Zac‘s foot between them.

“Yeah,” Zac says, his toes pushing harder until Joe doesn’t think he can even breathe anymore. “I don’t know their names, though.”

“Well,” Kevin says, and purses his mouth. Joe can feel the challenge rise in him like an inhale. “We’ll just have to see who gets there first.” He smiles, and Joe grips the table hard, Zac’s foot moving fast.

***

Zac’s mouth is a lot sweeter than it looks, and Joe pulls him back against the bathroom stall, his hands sliding Zac’s shirt up and over. Joe’s belt is already undone and his pants are half unzipped and when Zac bends down to bite Joe’s neck, to smooth it over with a wet kiss, Joe moans loud and long.

“Shh,” Zac says and then laughs. “Unless you want your brother to hear.”

They’ve left Kevin to pick up the tab, to pretend to flirt with the waitress, as clueless as usual. “He doesn’t mind it,” Joe says, but they both know that’s a lie. Kevin has a bigger protective streak than Joe does.

Zac’s mouth is sloppy against Joe’s skin, but this is how he likes it, and Zac slips a hand between Joe’s stomach and Joe’s jeans, fingers light and perfect. Zac licks Joe’s lips and says, “What about purity?” The weight of Joe’s ring is heavier than it looks, the last promise he ever made to his parents, the last promise of family.

Joe never told him the story, but he didn’t have to, every hunter they’ve already met knows how their parents died, how little Frankie died, and the honor the boys are supposed to have kept to them, to God.

Everyone already knows about the lies they’ve told.

Zac’s hand slow but hard against Joe’s skin, Joe says, “Fuck purity.” And his mouth is warm and soft when Zac claims it.

***

They make it to Colorado in three days, make it on the last of the gas, the last of the bread and peanut butter and few swallows of milk they bought with the money from Nick’s guitar case. Nick has fallen asleep on Joe’s arm in the backseat, his mouth slightly parted, his breath warm against Joe’s neck. Joe is counting the breaths one two three one two three to make sure they’re not ragged. Joe is laying his palm smooth against Nick’s forehead just to make sure he’s not flush.

He does this every so often to make sure Nick’s not sick again, make sure he doesn’t scare them like he did the last time, his sharp collarbone and the dark bruises that collected on his pale skin. Nick knows, like Joe knows, that this is Joe’s job.

Joe watches Nick and Kevin watches Joe. It’s just kind of the way they do it, it’s just kind of the way it’s done.

Kevin pulls into a gas station to fill up, reaching over Joe and Nick for the guitar case, reaching over for one of the guns and sliding it into his belt, pulling his shirt out of his jeans. “Stay here,” he says, and Joe nods once, small enough not to wake Nick.

There are two men that Kevin passes by as he walks into the station, the door’s bell clanging behind him. One of them is tall and handsome, standing over an open laptop that rests on the car’s hood, his hands typing furiously. The other is shorter, but no less attractive, pacing back and forth, holding his cell phone to his ear. The window is down, but Joe can’t hear the shorter one’s voice from where the car is parked.

Kevin comes back to fill up the car, three sodas tucked under his arm, and the two men give him glances that Joe’s seen before. It’s the same thing that he does, that Kevin does, it‘s the same thing that he‘s taught more than once to Nick, a quick one two sweep of the eyes to figure out if something’s a threat or not. And Joe just knows.

The two men are older than him, scarred and scruffy looking and exhausted, like maybe they just rolled out of bed and rinsed their mouths with whiskey before ending up here in the middle of bumblefuck Colorado on the same mission as Joe. Joe knows their type, has seen plenty of their type in the bars they frequent, has fucked plenty of them in the same diner bathrooms he meets Zac in. They’re tough and not afraid to back down from a fight and Joe might be willing to let them have this one, let them have this job if only he didn’t need it for himself. If only there was some other way to let out the anger that scares him sometimes, that scares his brothers, before he does something he really regrets.

Kevin puts the pump back when it stops, sliding into the driver’s seat and handing Joe two of the sodas, the bottles sweating in his hands. Nick’s still passed out on his shoulder and Kevin looks at them in the rearview, smiles small in Joe’s direction.

“Hey, Kev?” Joe says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” Kevin’s eyes meet his.

“Floor it,” Joe says, and rocks back in his seat when Kevin pushes the pedal, Nick still safe in Joe’s arms.

***

The house is full of furniture and the wooden walls are swollen and warm to the touch, but nobody’s lived there for a really long time. The family Zac was talking about must have fled at least a year ago, if not longer, their plates and silverware still left out from a breakfast long forgotten, their hampers full of laundry never returned to its rightful place. Nick dodges the legs of an overturned chair and Kevin runs a finger along the banister, tracing a clean path through the dark dust. The front bay windows must have blown open in a bad storm at one point because everything around it is pruned, wrinkled magazines and dead leaves and spotted glass.

Joe knows what it’s like to leave a house behind, to leave an empty shell full of memories, but when these people left, they never looked back.

Kevin stops by the kitchen and calls out, “Hello?” His voice sharp and loud in the quiet house, the hardwood underneath his feet creaking with misuse.

Nothing happens.

Nick shrugs and pulls the shoulder strap of his guitar case over his shoulder. He picks up a picture frame sitting on the table lining the hallway, smudges the glass with his fingerprints. It‘s of the family that left, probably, a pretty blonde woman and a man not much older than Kevin. “Maybe somebody already took care of it.” It’s a possibility, because even Zac doesn’t know how old the story is that Selena told him, but usually hunters like to take credit where credit is due, and drunken stories will get passed around like candy in bars, growing more exaggerated in each city they hit.

Nick sets down the photograph and says, “Maybe whatever used to be here is long gone.”

Joe stands still for a moment, looking around the living room and the hallway, his eyes trained for any slight movement. “No,” he says. He feels it, he knows it. “Something’s definitely here.”

His voice must be uncharacteristically solemn because Nick looks up at him, worried, even though he and Kevin are kind of used to this by now, Joe’s pseudo-psychic feelings. The way he gets sometimes, like maybe he just knows things, even when he shouldn’t, even when he doesn’t know what he’s saying, because it’s just the way he feels, like instinct or something stronger than that.

Nick says, “Are you sure?” And his voice might be a bit wobbly, but Kevin’s right there behind him, ready to slide an arm around his shoulders, slip a hand into his.

Joe nods only once, his mouth a straight line. “I’m sure,” he says. And then looks grim. “And there’s one more thing.”

Kevin straightens up, looking right at Joe. “What?” he says.

Joe takes in a shallow breath, his grip tightening on his gun. “It knows we’re here.”

Nick is looking straight at Joe, scared maybe what with the look on his face like slowly rising terror and Kevin is pivoting around, raising his gun like maybe he’ll be able to stop it, whatever it is, whatever is coming. And Joe can feel his heartbeat start to race, the feeling in his bones like somebody is watching him, like something is just waiting for his guard to slip, like maybe it’s got this plan, like maybe it knows what it’s doing. The hairs on the back of Joe’s neck rising and he can’t explain it, but he can feel this presence here, this thing like it’s somewhere in the back of his mind and he brings a hand up to his forehead, smoothing over the ache underneath.

It’s starting now, starting like it always starts.

Nick says, “Joe?”

And the light is slowly leaking from all the windows, like there’s a big cloud passing over the sky, and Kevin says, “Uh, guys?” His eyes are trained on the top of the stairs and the echo of the footsteps that are walking down them.

Says, “Maybe we should get out of here?” This isn’t their first rodeo, but they’ve been warned about this place and, the way they see it, running isn’t always the cowardly thing to do. Not when it could get you killed if you stayed.

Nick grabs one of Joe’s arms, Joe buckling under the weight of the searing pain crawling across his forehead, and drags him only two feet before the front door and the bay windows slam shut with a loud bang. Kevin grabs Joe’s other arm just before he falls, doesn’t even pause, his fingers so tight that they hurt.

Kevin’s seen Joe like this before, but Nick hasn’t. Joe has always protected him from this, this side of him, because he’s not sure what’s happening and he’s not sure if it’s dangerous. If he’s dangerous. And Nick’s better off not knowing, anyway, the way Joe can feel this thing inside him sometimes, growing stronger everyday. Nick’s better off not watching him turn into whatever this is.

Joe says, “Nick?” Ready to tell him to run, ready to tell him to just get the fuck out of here and never look back, leaving Joe and Kevin behind just like those people left their dirty dishes and moldy clothes, and Nick turns to him, his open face, but Joe’s words die on his lips.

Joe knows, just like Nick knows, that none of them would ever leave each other. Not ever.

Nick says Joe’s name again and Joe tries to smile, but it must come out unconvincing because Nick lifts his hand to Joe’s face, his fingers barely touching Joe’s cheek. Kevin’s grip on Joe tightens and tightens, but he’s only following the footsteps, following the handprints that are sliding down the banister, red when they leave.

“Guys?” Kevin says again. And Joe turns toward the sound of his voice, watches as Kevin’s chest stills, watches as Kevin’s mouth opens wide to scream.

And then, the world explodes.

***

When Joe wakes up, there’s a man standing over him. He tries to grab for his gun, but the man pushes his arms back down, saying, “Hey. Hey.” Over and over again, soft and striving for reassurance. When Joe’s eyes clear, he recognizes him as the man from the gas station, the taller one, the one with the laptop. He has pretty eyes, Joe thinks, and then sits straight up.

“Where are my brothers?” Joe says. His clothes are dirty and he’s laying in the middle of the driveway and he can’t see Kevin or Nick anywhere. His gun is missing. His head feels like somebody power drilled holes into it. “Where are they?” He says, his voice croaking out of him. The man in front of him looks confused for a minute.

“The two curly haired guys you were with?” This comes from the shorter one, who’s standing a little farther away, the one who’s currently holding Joe’s gun in his hands, opening the barrels and removing the rock salt.

“Yes,” Joe says, and then moves a hand up to his head after he nods and a sharp flare of pain shoots through his skull.

“We found you like this, just here. There wasn‘t anybody else around,” the taller one says. And then, “Sorry.”

Joe stands up, ignoring the rise of bile in his mouth. His stomach churns and then again and then again, but he’s pushing past the two men and walking towards the house, ready to pull on the doorknob. They’ve got to be here, somewhere. He knows it, he feels it.

“Hey, whoa,” the taller one says, and then blocks Joe’s path. “You can’t go back in there.”

“He’s a hunter, Sam,” the shorter one says with a sneer. “He might actually know what he’s doing, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and then lays a heavy hand on Joe’s shoulder. “We’ll find them, we just have to figure this out first, okay?”

Joe can’t figure this out first, doesn’t want to waste the time, so he pushes against Sam’s arm, tries to move past him into the house. He’s never left his brothers like this, not on a case, not ever, and he’s not about to start. “Move,” he says, but it’s more of a growl than anything else.

Joe knows that Sam recognizes what’s here, what’s between Joe and his brothers, and what it means to leave them like this, but Sam’s not giving up anyway, his solid stature and the way his hand is inching towards the gun in his belt. But Joe’s not playing around, not when it comes to this, not when it comes to his brothers. He squares his jaw and grits his teeth, veins jumping. He might look young, but he’s got a hell of a lot of experience under his belt, and if Sam wants to get in the middle of this, well, Joe isn’t above stopping him the only way he knows how. Joe will do everything it takes.

“Move,” Joe says again.

And Sam does.

Joe walks in the house and it’s like they were never even there. The blood on the stairs is gone, the blood on the walls, and the windows are open again and the table that moved, that knocked Joe out, is back where it was before, before whatever happened. Everything is untouched and exactly how it was before they even set foot in the house and Joe has this sinking feeling in his stomach, has this feeling that’s hard to place, like dread or terror or maybe something more.

Sam is standing in the doorway, watching Joe pivot and turn around and around and call out his brother’s names in that awful, scared voice he just can’t hide anymore, but no one answers, just like Joe knew no one would. Joe knows, like Sam knows, that Joe wasn’t ever meant to see his brothers again. That this, whatever this is, was a warning.

That Joe was the lucky one.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says again, when Joe reluctantly leaves the house, squinting into the dying sun. Joe walks to the car and sits in the driver’s seat until he feels like he won’t start crying at any moment anymore, his hands on the steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles are ghost white. Nick’s half finished soda is sitting warm and still in the cup holder and Joe traces the rim with his finger.

If he thinks about it, if Joe lets himself think about where they are or who took them or, oh God, if they’re even alive, then he’s not gonna make it out of this. He’s not gonna live through this. He looks in the rearview and tries not to remember Kevin’s eyes looking back at him, tries not to remember the weight of Nick against his shoulder. And he shuts down.

“Do you wanna come back with us?” Sam asks, standing a few feet away, like maybe he’s afraid Joe will push him again or hit him or something. “Maybe tell us what happened?”

Joe can see Dean from here, opening the trunk of their car and pulling out a newer, bigger gun and replacing it with Joe’s. He runs a rag over the barrel, runs it over smooth, and then walks over to them. “Here,” he says, handing the gun to Joe. “It’s protected,” pointing to the charms etched into the steel. “I thought it might suit you better than the piece of shit you were packing.”

Joe doesn’t say thanks, but he doesn’t need to, Dean’s already turning away.

Sam says, “We can figure this all out. We can find your brothers.” His face is gentle and Joe wants to tell them that it doesn’t work that way, that things like that don’t just happen for free, but Sam might be naïve enough to believe it and Joe doesn’t really want to ruin the cold surprise.

Dean turns back to face Joe again. “We’ve got beer,” he adds.

And Joe says, “Let’s go.”

***

They’re on their third six pack when Sam, who’s been sullen and quiet all night, giving Joe these dark-eyed looks like maybe he knows more about what Joe’s going through than he’ll admit, leaves to make a phone call. Dean hands him the car keys even though Sam really shouldn’t be driving, and Sam takes them graciously, slipping out the door of the motel room without so much as a look back.

Joe says, “Is he always like that?” And Dean laughs.

“Pretty much,” he says. He’s lifting the beer in his hand up and up, and Joe can’t take his eyes off the straight line of his neck. Joe can’t take his eyes off the curl of his mouth around the rim of the bottle.

“You guys boyfriends?” Joe asks and Dean chokes, spitting out the beer in his mouth. Joe’s seen the way they look at each other, but Dean obviously thinks he’s blind.

“Brothers,” he croaks and Joe shrugs. It’s kind of all the same to Joe, anyway.

Dean has a scar on his shoulder in the shape of a handprint and both the brothers wear weariness like a mask, but neither of them talk about what they’re running from, about who’s hunting them instead of the other way around. Joe’s seen enough to know that all hunters have a story to tell, about the way they got to the point they’re at, the family that was either taken or left behind, the life they used to lead. But these boys, these men, well, Joe doesn’t know of anything that could do this much damage.

Joe wants Dean to tell him his life story, but when Dean talks, he says nothing. It’s cars and guns and girls, and Dean will smile that smile that must have gotten him this far in life, the one that Joe’s not really fighting off, not even when he should. Not even when he should be thinking of nothing but Nick and Kevin.

Joe watches Dean finish the last swallow of beer, watches him place the empty bottle on the floor. “Hey,” Joe says, and Dean looks up.

Joe stands up from the bed and slinks over to Dean’s chair, slipping to his knees, sitting back on his haunches. Dean raises an eyebrow. “How long is your brother gonna be gone?” Joe says, and here’s where he slides his hands over Dean’s legs, his fingers slithering from knee to thigh.

“Not long,” Dean says, but his voice is dark and he’s not saying no.

“I thought we could have some fun,” Joe says. And here’s where he’s slipping the button of Dean’s jeans through the hole, and here’s where he takes the zipper between the pad of his thumb and forefinger and slides it all the way down. Dean is already hard.

“How old are you?” Dean asks, but it’s more just to make himself feel better than really wanting to know.

Joe smiles. “Nineteen,” he says. Old enough to be legal, old enough to know what he’s doing, even when he really doesn’t, even when all he wants is the feeling of skin on his and he’s not really thinking of the consequences and he’s not really thinking of what this will mean. Even when all he really wants is a distraction.

“What about your brothers?” Dean’s chest is moving with slow breaths, but Joe knows that inside his heart is racing.

Dean knows what Joe knows and that’s this: they both love their brothers in every way they should and the one way that they shouldn’t. They both love their brothers in the only way they’re not supposed to, the only way they’ve never been given permission.

Joe knows what Dean knows and that’s this: they’ll never be normal, not even if they tried.

“They’ll come back to me,” Joe says, and he’s close enough to smell the alcohol on Dean’s breath, and he’s close enough to see the lining of freckles on Dean’s face.

Dean is shock still, but Joe can feel the blood throbbing in his veins. “What about your brother?” Joe says.

And Dean shrugs. “He went out to go call his demon whore.” And Joe doesn’t know the sound of that tone in Dean’s voice, but he can guess.

Joe’s fingers are inching down and down. “So I guess we’re both free for the night,” he says. He licks his lips, and Dean’s eyes follow Joe’s tongue.

“I guess,” Dean says.

Joe knows what Dean knows and that’s this: nothing they could ever do will make them right in the way they should have been all along, right in the way that they won’t look at their brothers with more than just love.

Dean knows what Joe knows and that’s this: they’ll never be able to love anyone else for as long as they live.

“Good,” Joe says, and Dean captures Joe’s mouth, biting hard enough to draw blood.

***

When Dean touches Joe, Joe doesn’t think of Nick, doesn’t think of Kevin. When Dean touches Joe, Joe feels like he’s nothing but skin and muscle and bone, nothing but the salty taste of sweat. When Dean touches Joe, Joe isn’t a brother or an orphaned son, Joe isn’t looking for the thing that took his family away from him, Joe doesn’t feel that knot of anger in his stomach that is growing stronger everyday, growing out of control.

When Dean touches Joe, Joe is nothing but this, the slick feeling of meeting skin, Dean’s wet kisses and the strength when he wraps his arms around Joe, when Joe turns to meet his mouth. Joe is nothing but this, Dean’s chest rising and falling with warm breath, Joe’s hands crawling across Dean’s belly, Dean’s sharp inhale of surprise.

Joe is this: the way they look at each other and think of nothing else.

And Joe needs this, and Dean knows that more than anybody else ever could.

***

When Sam comes back in the morning, he smells of soap and toothpaste and, faintly, of blood. Joe is already dressed and ready to go, but Dean is still in bed sleeping, the sheets twisted around him in the most obscene way. The other bed is untouched and Sam sees this, but doesn’t say anything, even if Joe can see that it’s killing him.

“Hey,” Sam says when he walks in. Joe is pulling on his shoes, and his tie is undone and hanging limp over his shoulders.

“Hey,” Joe says. He watches Sam move over to the table with his laptop, curving around empty and discarded beer bottles, almost stopping beside Dean, almost pausing enough to watch Dean as he sleeps.

“I found some things,” Sam says, and here he holds up a few pieces of computer paper. “About the house,” he says, like he needs to clarify.

There’s an old legend, Sam tells him. An old legend about the grounds, and it’s not exactly an Indian burial ground, but it’s close. It’s an old curse and an even older protection spell, and Sam shows Joe the symbols that they should look for, the symbols that stole his family. There were other boys who went missing, men who went missing, Sam tells him, but Sam thinks there’s something to this, something they can work out to find Joe’s brothers. Joe doesn’t ask why he’s so eager to help, but only because he’ll be just as happy as Sam to get them back and leave the Winchesters the fuck alone. Only because Joe knows when he’s not wanted.

When Dean wakes up, they have breakfast in the diner across the street. Joe is sitting next to Dean and Sam looks vaguely hurt, so Joe keeps brushing his arm against Dean’s arm, pushing his shoulder against Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s not stupid, but he’s also not stopping it, and it probably has something to do with the girl he mentioned last night, Sam’s girl, the girl who’s come between them.

And Joe’s only happy to play devil’s advocate.

***

Going back to the house, Joe feels the knot of anger in his stomach turn into something like dread, something like terror, because he doesn’t want to know what happens if he can’t bring his brothers back, he doesn’t want to know what happens when it’s just him and him alone. Dean doesn’t hold his hand like Nick would, like Kevin would, but Joe’s not about to ask.

Sam brings crosses and bags of magic and Dean brings an arsenal, pulling out gun after gun from the trunk of his car, loading them full of rock salt, loading them full of silver. He’s not sure what this is, he tells Joe, but he’s sure that one of these things can hurt it, even if it doesn’t do much damage. He’s sure that one of these things will work, even if he has to try every last one.

Joe walks into the house and it feels the same as it does before, the old, quiet house that swallowed up his brothers, and, somewhere deep inside of him, he feels cheated, he feels robbed, because doesn’t it know that it took away everything he lived for? Doesn’t it know that it took away his whole fucking life?

The furniture is untouched and the stack of wrinkled magazines are blowing open from the wind breezing through the bay window and when Sam calls out hello in the empty house, just like Kevin did, nothing moves, nothing answers back. Sam says, “Alright.” And he hands Joe one of the small bags in his hands. “We need to spread these around.”

Joe opens the bag and smells spices, but it looks like there’s nothing inside except for ashes and small bits of bone. It’s not the normal hunting tricks he grew up to learn, it’s not rock salt or iron or holy water, but he doesn’t ask what it is, doesn’t really care. He shakes the bag over the table, shake it over the couch, and when it hits the floor, the ashes spark and charge, and Joe can smell the burn, but can‘t see any smoke.

Dean’s holding his shotgun as tight as he can, making small circles around and around and around, watching for the blood, watching for the darkness. He’s got enough guns to take out whatever is here, whatever is protecting its land, but only if they work. Sam’s spilling the bags around the border of the room, shaking out the contents over the carpet and onto the window sills, closing them in.

Joe doesn’t know what’s gonna happen, but he can feel it coming.

He tries not to remember Kevin’s eyes in the rearview mirror, tries not to remember the weight of Nick against him, the weight of his mouth and the slick taste of his tongue, Kevin’s hands on Joe’s neck, Kevin’s hands on Joe’s chest and moving lower and moving lower. He tries not to remember the slide of Nick’s fingers along Joe’s bicep, the bite of Nick’s teeth on Joe’s collarbone, Nick‘s smile blinding. He’s tries not to remember and it’s like the memories are being pulled out of him, the pain in his mind dropping him to his knees, the pain like an ice pick through his skull.

Dean is there, pulling Joe to sit up even when all he wants to do is lie down and close his eyes like it’s too hard to keep them open, like it’s too heavy. Sam is screaming something in the background, screaming against the sudden roar of the wind and the pounding blood in Joe’s ears. Everything is a little blurry and Joe is reaching out for Dean, Dean’s arms tucked around him, but his limbs feel like they’re being pulled away from his body, like they’re being wrenched the other way.

“Joe?” Dean’s saying, but Joe can’t even open his mouth to answer. “Joe?”

Sam is saying something in Latin and Joe catches a glimpse of the blood on the stairs, the blood on the walls, the blood moving towards them, and he wants to yell look out and he wants to scream for them all just to get out of the house, but nothing is leaving his mouth, no words pass his lips. Sam is slammed into the wall, and one of the bags he’s holding explodes in a cloud of ash and Sam is coughing and choking like someone’s holding a hand to his throat, even though no one’s there.

“Sam!” Dean yells, and he’s pointing the shotgun in Sam’s direction, pointing it towards whatever is holding him there by his throat, whatever is pushing Sam up the wall, and pulls the trigger. There’s a sickening sound of impact and Sam falls down, and whatever it is that was holding him there is gone.

The darkness that came for Joe and his brothers is creeping over him again, but Dean leaves him to check on Sam, fighting against the wind to inch over and place a hand on Sam’s bloody head. Joe can feel it moving across him and Joe can feel its hands over his mouth, his arms, and there’s searing pain crawling across his head, and there’s a stabbing feeling behind his eyes. His ears are bleeding and his nose is bleeding, he can feel the wet slide down his face, and he wants to struggle, he wants to move out of its grasp, but something in him, something deep inside, wants this more than a life without his brothers.

Something inside him wants this more than never seeing Nick or Kevin ever again.

He whispers, “Go ahead,” and he can feel the thing listening.

He whispers, “C’mon, take me,” and he can feel the thing unleash his claws.

Joe can’t scream, but if he could, he would, the tear of his skin under this thing’s claws, the tear of his stomach and the burst of his blood soaking through his clothes. “C’mon,” he says, and his voice is louder and he feels that knot of anger in his stomach grow tighter, grow sharper.

“C’mon, motherfucker,” Joe is yelling now, his voice loud even in his ears. “Take me already!”

And the thing is ripping him into pieces and Joe wants to ask if this is what it did to his brothers, if this is where his brothers are now, shredded into tiny pieces and fed to the house like it’s a living thing that needs blood and meat to survive. Joe can feel the thing tearing into him, it’s claws and teeth, and Joe wants to scream that it can fucking have everything he’s made of because it’s the least he’ll give to live somewhere where he might be able to see his brothers again, to live in a place where he’ll never have to leave them because there is no death and there are no goodbyes. Joe wants to scream and scream that whatever this is, whatever this thing is, can fucking have him if all it means is he’ll never be alone again.

Joe closes his eyes, ready. And then, the pain stops.

When Joe opens his eyes again, Sam is standing over him with an open book in his hands, the blood from his head dripping down the side of his face. Dean is holding Sam up because Joe guesses he can’t stand on his own yet.

Sam says, “Thanks.” He’s not smiling, but even Joe can see the grateful look in his eyes.

And Joe croaks, “What for?” His face must be a mess, he can feel the blood sticking to his skin.

Sam says, “For being the distraction.” And here he smiles and Dean shifts his weight and then he’s smiling too. It wasn’t a plan, but Joe probably wouldn’t have needed to be told to do it, anyway.

Joe says, “You’re welcome,” even if his voice isn’t very convincing. His chest feels hollow, his eyes feel tired. Dean lends a hand to pull Joe up and Joe takes it, and for a moment he rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, not ready to leave, not ready to say goodbye yet. There’s something that Joe is missing and he’s not ready to let it go.

And then, someone says, “Joe?”

And Joe would know that voice anywhere.

***

Afterwards, Dean gives Joe his number and tells him to keep it, to call when he needs somebody to talk to about guns or cars or something, somebody to talk to when he doesn’t really feel like talking, and Joe swallows a smile and says thanks. Dean won’t touch him, even if Joe wants him to, even if Joe feels like he needs the small sense of security that Dean brings, the swell of hope in his chest. Dean won’t touch him, even if Joe wants him to, but Joe thinks it’s okay, thinks Dean isn’t really what he wants, anyway.

Sam doesn’t say goodbye, but he doesn’t need to, just slips Joe a stolen library book on curses and spells and tells him that he might need it some day, when the Winchesters aren’t around to help him out of a jam that holy water and rock salt won’t cure. Sam thinks he’s inexperienced, but Joe’s still young and willing to learn, and Sam appreciates that.

There are bad things coming up ahead, he tells Joe, his voice solemn and somber, bad things that they don’t even know they can fix, and it’d be best to learn as much as Joe can before the shit really hits the fan. Joe nods, and then leaves without a glance back.

The first night away from Colorado, they don’t leave the motel room. Joe won’t let Nick out of his sight and Kevin won’t let Joe out of his.

It’s just kind of the way it is. It’s just kind of the way it’s always been.


End file.
